


Frozen Roses

by violet_storms



Series: sapphic september 2020 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Sansa Stark, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Implied Relationships, Memories, Sapphic September, The Eyrie (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_storms/pseuds/violet_storms
Summary: At night she dreams of wolves(how unoriginal)and winter castles(how useless)and her name(but it isn’t her name anymore).
Relationships: Alayne Stone/Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Series: sapphic september 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907998
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Frozen Roses

**Author's Note:**

> _written for sapphic september 2020, prompt: "dream."_

At night she dreams of wolves _(how unoriginal)_ and winter castles _(how useless)_ and her name _(but it isn’t her name anymore)._

Sansa runs with the pack through the snow-covered forest, the trees flashing by with the rest of the world, and for a moment she dreams that she has wings, soaring above them all; but then the forest wavers and vanishes. She is alone before a burning castle, watching the towers crumble into dust, and she crashes back to the earth like a stone.

Alayne isn’t cold when she wakes up. Her blood is searing in her veins, making it hard to breathe, and her heart is burning a hole through her chest _(or it would be, if she still had one)._ The taste of ash lingers on her tongue. Her room is too small and so are her lungs, so Alayne stands up and pulls on a robe that brushes past her feet, trailing across the stone floor like the train of a gown. _Do I look like a ghost in this?_ she wonders. After a moment, she decides that it doesn’t matter.

The halls of the Eyrie are grey and drafty and Alayne welcomes their chill, clinging to the shivers as long as she can, letting them shake the dream away. _No more of these,_ she tells herself. _No more, no more. You are not a wolf girl anymore. You are Alayne. Alayne._

The sky is black as pitch and the moon hangs in the sky like a scythe, and it’s useless to tell herself that, because she’s going to dream it again, she knows she is. She always does. It’s a never-ending pattern: night falls, and Alayne dreams of shadows and snow and roses.

_Not roses._

_Never roses._

Roses don’t belong in the Eyrie. Roses wouldn’t be safe. Alayne Stone has no reason to think of or dream of roses, none at all, and she is Alayne now, not Sansa. _Alayne._ The name flows from her lips like water, _(but the water is running red with blood)._

Sansa Stark is a dead girl. She is a ghost girl, with no friends and no family and no heart. Ghosts do not lose their breath at the sight of a rose pattern on somebody’s dress. Ghosts do not wince at the sound of high-voiced laughter on the other side of the room. Ghosts do not remember soft hands and lips and quiet voices, or side glances and stolen kisses, or broken promises.

Ghosts do not remember what it feels like to be safe, or loved, or wanted. Ghosts do not have memories at all. Only sorrow.

“It isn’t fair,” she whispers, unsure who she is whispering to, but it doesn’t matter. Her voice is thin and breathless, her words carried away as soon as they leave her mouth. Her voice was thin in the capital too but she made it that way, to survive. She could shout now if she wanted, she could scream, but she doesn’t. Screaming is for Sansa Stark.

Alayne Stone has no voice.

She’s far beyond cold now, but not numb _(no matter how long she stands there, she never manages numb)_ so she goes back to bed, the robe that drags behind her feeling more and more like a chain. _No dreams this time,_ she begs her mind, but not dreaming is almost worse, because then she’s stuck wondering. Wondering if the rose girl mourns for her. Wondering if the rose girl thinks of her at all.

The moon is coming closer and closer and maybe it is a scythe after all, a sharp edge waiting to fall on her neck and Alayne almost thinks she would welcome the pain _(she wants to find out if she’s even alive)_ but then she wakes up for the second time, her mouth full of blood and her hair showing through red.

So she spits into the sink.

Closes her eyes.

Whispers her name.

_(Alayne, not Sansa.)_

This time, she almost believes it.


End file.
